


The Long Journey Back Home Again

by TrilliumWoods



Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Employer/Employee relationship, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, F/M, Future, Happy Ending, I might get impatient to get to the banging, Mentions of Murder, Past Character Death, Perhaps that's ethically questionable, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, but oh well lol, mentions of cannibalism, or at least I'm gonna try to make it slow burn, sad beginnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrilliumWoods/pseuds/TrilliumWoods
Summary: Life hasn't been easy for Bubba after he and his remaining family were forced to flee from the law that fateful night in '73. Now two decades later he's all on his own, just one paycheck away from starvation and homelessness. Drayton said Bubba could never go home again... but maybe, just maybe, he can find a new one with you.Set in 1993, 20 years after the end of the first movie.
Relationships: Bubba/Reader, Leatherface | Bubba "Junior" Sawyer/Original Female Character(s), Leatherface | Bubba "Junior" Sawyer/You, Leatherface/Reader, bubba sawyer/reader
Comments: 52
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

Paperwork. So, so much paperwork.

Thank god you can afford an accountant to help with the really dense, nitpicky stuff around tax time, but the daily records of the cattle and the inflow and outflow of funds on a day-to-day basis still falls to you. Running a successful ranch, one that stays out of the red, is more challenging than most folks realize. Hell, it’s more challenging than even _you_ realized, till you became an adult and Daddy handed the ranch over entirely to you.But while the business aspect is new, you’d grown up helping out to the best of your ability with everything else, your roster of chores expanding with each year as you aged: mucking out barns and distributing hay, bottle feeding orphaned calves and the sickly ones that really probably should have been knocked on the head at birth, so unlikely they were to survive and turn a profit. But your father was a kind soul beneath that gruff rancher exterior, and though he raised you with a strong sense of practicality he didn’t want to snuff out your sympathetic nature entirely. There’s few things that warm your heart like gazing into the big, trusting eyes of a gentle bovine as you nurse it to maturity… and few things that make your heart twinge with sadness more than seeing that bovine go off to the slaughter. They all get knocked on the head eventually, but that’s the way it goes. With life, comes death. Including your Daddy’s. Including Jacob’s. And someday - though you hope not too soon - including yours.

You feel the beginnings of a headache start to throb in your temples, no doubt exacerbated by the fact that it’s past lunch time. Then your already-waning concentration is shattered by a sudden knock on the front door. Who on earth could it be? You aren’t expecting any deliveries, and the ranch is so far out of town that only the most desperate of salesmen would spend the time to venture all the way here - plus most salesmen in these parts know better than to disrupt a residence that doubles as a business. Oh well, it’s probably a good idea to take a break anyway. Setting your papers aside, you scoot away from the counter then make your way down the hall to open up the door - and find the biggest man you’ve ever seen standing on your porch.

Tall and broad, with a barrel chest and slight belly beneath a tucked-in brown and blue plaid flannel shirt. He’s built like a damn bear, but his shoulders are rounded and hunched beneath the weight of a rucksack strapped to his back. Shoulder-length hair is pulled back in a ponytail, dark waves cascading over one shoulder along the side of his thick neck. To say he’s physically intimidating is an understatement, but the look on his face and the energy he’s projecting feels sheepish - almost timid, in fact. Like he doesn’t think he should be here. Like he doesn’t even _want_ to be here, but he has no choice.

……..

_”You ain’t got no choice, Bubba. We both ain’t got no choice, it’s do or die” Drayton grumbles, dragging one hand down his face in exhaustion. The lines around his eyes and mouth and crossing the span of his forehead catch the yellow light and shadows from the nearby lamp like the folds of the moth-eaten blanket wadded up at the foot of the shitty motel bed. “I ain’t gonna be ‘round forever, so you gotta learn how to get out there or starve. You wanna starve, ya damn fool?”_

_Bubba shakes his head. No, he doesn’t want to starve. But he doesn’t want to “get out there”, either. It’s absolutely terrifying. He shuffles towards the bed and tries to pull the blanket up to cover his remaining brother in a gesture of both love and hope that maybe if he behaves well enough he can convince Drayton to change his mind... but Drayton waves him away so he retreats, wringing his hands anxiously together with a whimper of distress._

_Drayton’s hand leaves his exasperated face, but there’s sadness and worry there as well. “I know yer scared. I know you ain’t never had to do nothin’ on yer own and that’s my fault. But what in the hell was I s’pposed to do with you and yer goddamn idiot brother? You both ain’t got no sense, and what in the goddamn hell was I s’pposed to do about that?”_

_Now he looks angry and Bubba retreats even further, hunching submissively and wanting to cry. He hasn't even had the chance to mourn Nubbins properly yet, and he probably won't ever get to. They had to leave too soon in order to escape the clutches of the law. Too soon to scrape what was left of his goddamn idiot brother off the road and treat it right, like they did with Grandma._

_Drayton sighs and his face falls back into exhausted worry again. “Get over here,” he orders, but he doesn’t sound mean anymore. Bubba cautiously steps forward as Drayton reaches for a pencil sitting on the nightstand and then shifts enough to pull a small notepad out of his pocket. “Let’s see if you ain’t too dumb to figure this out.”_

……..

You keep your hand on the door in case you need to slam it shut - you’re still unsure of his intentions. “Can I help you?”

The stranger says nothing, he just holds out a small, flipped-open spiral notepad with one beefy hand so you lean forward just enough to read what it says. The penmanship is bordering on terrible, all capital letters in an unpracticed hand. You would almost guess a child wrote it, or an illiterate adult who just recently learned. The message makes the latter seem the most likely:

'MY NAME IS BUBBA SAWYER. I CANT TALK BUT CAN YOU GIVE ME A JOB? I CAN WORK HARD AND HELP YOU.’

No matter how awful a particular job is, this is always Bubba’s least favorite part: the actual asking for it. He refers to this particular page in his notebook often: the first thing his brother showed him how to write because it was the most important. _“Unless you wanna sleep in and eat outta a dumpster, you gotta get work. Can’t just stay home and mess around all day no more.”_ Drayton had said as he guided Bubba’s hand over and over to make unsteady, seemingly meaningless marks on the paper. He’s rewritten it many times over the years every time a notepad that stood in for his voice was replaced, and while he’s gotten quite practiced at this particular phrase, every occasion he must use it is nerve-wracking. The anxiety that accompanies the wait for an answer makes his guts coil up like a rattlesnake, and when he was younger it would even make his hands shake. And most of the time that wait ends in rejection, which means he must do it again. And again. Until someone finally decides they don’t mind a mute as long as he’s got a strong back. But it’s gotten harder to find those people the older he gets. Why hire him when there’s a younger body with just as much muscle who can actually speak? So despite his growing repertoire of various job skills, something that should have gotten easier with time has only gotten more difficult instead. He waits for your answer, hoping against hope that perhaps you’ll say yes.

You glance up at him and he brings his hand and the notepad back to his side. He shifts a bit uncomfortably and looks down at his cowboy boots for a moment before meeting your eyes again. He looks embarrassed and tired and despite his size he doesn’t seem dangerous... but you still study his face as you process this request he’s just made, trying to get a better sense of him and what he’s all about.

His eyes are dark brown - almost beautifully bovine, in fact - and set deep beneath a strong, masculine brow ridge that’s topped with thick black eyebrows. They’re like dark, bushy caterpillars. The rest of his hair and beard is also black, but with liberal streaks of silver mixed in. He looks to be in his mid-forties or so like yourself - still a bit too young to have so much grey hair, but that plus a sort of weariness around his eyes leads you to believe that his life has not been easy. Which makes it no real surprise that he’s now standing on your doorstep out of nowhere, seeking work but looking like he expects to find none. His nose is straight and his lips are plush, and you can’t help but think they would probably feel nice to kiss... but visible between them his teeth have two strange little points each. You try not to stare, wondering why they’re like that… he’s dressed too conservatively for you to imagine he filed them down in a show of social nonconformity, but who knows? Maybe he was a wild child in his younger days. Or maybe it’s some rare birth defect you’re simply ignorant of. You’re no dentist, after all. You’re no therapist either, but it doesn’t take an expert to see the tinge of sadness in his expression... and yet there is just the faintest sliver of hope there as well. It’s a weak, desperate sort of hope, clearly struggling and losing against the expectation of being rejected. But all of that conspires to make you not _want_ to reject him. You can tell he’s not doing it on purpose, but you can’t help but feel sympathy for him. He looks almost as sorry as one of those orphaned calves. How low does your life need to be, how hopeless your prospects, to resort to knocking on random strangers doors out in the middle of nowhere in the hopes of a paycheck? You can’t be sure so soon if you want to hire him, but at the very least you can give him a break and maybe a warm meal while you think it over.

You introduce yourself and open the door wider. ”It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sawyer. Would you like to come inside for a little bit and discuss it further? I was just about to heat up some lunch.”

He perks up immediately, still looking cautious, but that faint flicker of hope in his eyes sparks just a bit brighter. He nods, then follows you inside like a stray dog that can hardly believe its luck. He stands there filling up the hallway as you close the door, then you lead him into the kitchen.

”Go ahead and put your bag down and have a seat,” you encourage him with a wave towards the counter, and he shrugs off his rucksack and sets it on the floor before sitting slow as molasses on one of the bar stools. His eyes never leave you, but it doesn’t feel creepy.He just looks anxious to know what your answer will be and you decide to do your best to decide quickly and not leave him hanging for too long. “I was just going to make meatloaf sandwiches and a quick salad. Does that sound okay?”

He nods again, then reaches into one chest pocket and pulls out a small stub of a pencil. You take the meatloaf and ketchup out of the fridge and watch out of the corner of your eye as he leans over the counter and brings the pencil stub to his notepad. He’s bent so close to the paper as he writes that you wonder if his vision isn’t all that great, but you’re not going to judge. You had to finally bite the bullet and get reading glasses yourself just last year.

He finishes writing and holds the notepad out. You stop assembling the sandwiches to read:

’THANK YOU.’

”You’re very welcome. Is Coke okay to drink?”

Another nod, and at last you see a ghost of a smile start to spread across his face. It feels strangely good to elicit such a reaction from him.

”So, where are you from, Mr. Sawyer?” You ask, popping the meatloaf slices into the microwave and tossing greens into the salad spinner in the sink.

‘TEXAS.’, he writes.

”Wow, that’s quite a ways away. What brings you to California?”

He doesn’t write anything down for a moment, and his already-faint smile ebbs away. Guilt sinks in your stomach and you hope you haven’t crossed any boundaries already... but at last he leans down and writes out his reply. He holds the notepad up as you set his sandwich and salad on the counter in front of him, and this time you take the beat-up little booklet from him to read:

’HAD TO LEEV. FAMILY ALL GON.’

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” you say softly as you slide his glass of Coke across the counter and hand back the notepad. It’s true. You’re not sure if he means they’re all dead or what, but either way he’s clearly on his own and it’s tragic. No one should be alone... though you yourself have been alone for far too long as well. Ever since Jacob died six years ago. You push the painful memory out of your mind. “Do you want ice?”

He nods so you pull the ice tray out of the freezer and pop a few cubes into his glass and your own. You take a sip and he mirrors you, as if he’d been waiting for your permission to start.

”How long have you been here in Cali?”

Instead of writing anything, he holds up two fingers, then makes a zero sign. You take a guess.

”Twenty years?”

He nods. You take a bite of your salad but he still hasn’t touched his food, so you tilt your head towards his plate and smile, “Go ahead and dig in.”

That tentative little smile comes back, and it warms your heart. He seems nice. Sweet, even. And honestly, pretty handsome as well. He goes for the sandwich first, dumping liberal amounts of ketchup all over it so that he has to use a fork to eat it. Typical man, you can’t help but smile to yourself. But of course a man his size is going to consume lots of calories, especially if he’s doing manual labor. If you’re going to keep him around and provide room and board in exchange for his work, hopefully he won’t eat you out of house and home. But he said that he could work hard and you believe him. He looks very strong, and if he grew up in Texas the odds are good that he knows at least a little bit about ranching. And even if he was desperate for work, it seems unlikely he would seek it on a cattle ranch if he didn’t have a clue about the business.

”So, Mr. Sawyer, do you know much about raising cattle?”

He nods.

“Can you put up and fix fences? Handle the bulls and breeding and take care of the calves and cows? Branding, shots, feeding, and loading for slaughter? Mucking out barns?”

He nods in affirmative to each of those questions, but shakes his head when you ask about driving the cattle truck to town. He’d shown up at your doorstep on foot, but you’d still assumed he at least knew how to drive but simply lacked a vehicle. Apparently not. He looks embarrassed by this confession, though there’s really no need. Nobody’s perfect, after all, and he’s winning you over fast. True, his muteness might make some things more challenging than usual, but you’ve never backed down from a challenge and his energy feels cooperative and earnest. You also get the feeling he’s not the sharpest tool in the shed. Not so much due to his muteness or poor spelling - though that’s certainly part of it - but more about something the way that he moves, how he carries himself. He’s clearly lacking in formal education if nothing else, but advanced degrees aren’t necessary for the work you’d have him doing anyway. Besides, you’d rather deal with a hard worker with a good attitude who just happens to be mute and a little bit slow than a sullen, lazy smartass - which so far seems to be the only people you’ve been able to find until now.

”Well, that’s alright. I mostly could use a hand with everything else anyway. What’re your terms?” You’re hoping for a salary request or hours per week, but he just shrugs. It’s going to be up to you, it seems, and you suspect that will be the case regarding most things from here on out, even outside of work-related matters. “How about this: I can offer you room and board and $5 an hour. There’s an apartment above the old dairy barn. It’s not huge, but it’s nice and well furnished. Does that sound agreeable to you?” It’s more than the the going rate for these sorts of jobs, but he looks like he needs it and you can afford it. There’s few things you hate more than a stingy landlord or boss, and you don’t want to be one yourself. “We’ll start with a trial run of one month and see how it’s working out and reassess then. Sound alright?”

His eyes have gone wide and his thick caterpillar brows have jumped up towards his hairline, once again looking as though he can hardly believe his luck. He nods enthusiastically and shakes your hand when you offer it, his own hand easily enveloping yours completely. He’s gentle, but you can still sense the strength in his calloused grip. “Well alright then, Mr. Sawyer. We’ll get you all set up after lunch.”

Now he actually _really_ smiles when he nods, mouth open enough for you to clearly see those odd pointed teeth. They’re so strange, but weirdly cute as well, and you give him a grin back and continue your meal.

Bubba can barely believe what just happened. You seem nice - and generous - and it feels like nice, generous people rarely come into his life. He also can’t help but notice that you’re very pretty. He’s always liked pretty women, ever since he was a little boy. Even before looking at them made his tummy - and lower - feel pleasantly funny. Once he got older, sometimes when an especially pretty one came to dinner, watching them struggle and scream would make his dick hard. He wanted to touch them in a way different than meat, different than hitting their heads with a hammer and chopping them up into good cuts for eating or faces for wearing. But Drayton wouldn’t allow it. He’d let Bubba butcher the men, strip them nude, cut them up, throw their cocks to the chickens and fry up their balls, but women were strictly off limits. Only Nubbins was allowed to take the women apart from the neck down. _“I know yer brother’ll keep his pecker in his pants, but you… don’t think I ain’t seen how you look at them girls!”_ Drayton seethed, so when a girl came to the house when Nubbins was gone, Bubba’d cut off her head if it was worth making a mask out of, then hang the rest of her on the hook or put her in the freezer with one wistful look before retreating. The temptation was strong, but no matter how hard his dick got, trying to ease some of that ache wasn’t worth the ache of a walloping. But it still didn’t stop him from gently caressing her face - and maybe sneaking a kiss from her cold lips if Drayton wasn’t home - before tenderly peeling the skin from her skull. Later that night he’d stroke himself while imagining what it would be like to touch a woman like how the roosters touch the hens and the bull touch the cows… especially a woman that was still warm and alive.

He’s almost had the opportunity to do so once or twice over the years. When he and Drayton and Grandpa first moved to the city, a woman on the street corner outside the mini-mart where Bubba got work as a janitor offered to suck his cock for three dollars. He didn’t have three dollars, and even if he did he wouldn’t know what to do. So instead he shook his head and hurried away towards the bus stop that would take him back to the motel while she shouted mean things after him. Bubba avoided the women on the street corners after that.

For awhile, about ten years ago, he had worked at what Drayton called a _“titty bar”_. His job was to throw out men who drank too much and got ornery, who started fights or didn’t pay for their booze, or who touched the women who worked there in ways that were against the rules. Drayton said it was _“disreputable work”_ , and that _“no self respectin’ man goes into a den of sin like that to throw money at whores”_ … but it was actually Bubba’s favorite job he’d ever had after being forced out of his home. Sure, it always smelled like smoke and between the customers and the music it was always too loud, but he got to watch beautiful women dancing with hardly any clothes on. It was tough getting used to working at night and it didn’t pay well - plus the boss wasn’t very friendly - but as long as Bubba could make it seem like he was paying attention to the customers and not the dancers he didn’t get yelled at very much, which was nice. He’s used to handling people who don’t want to be handled, but he rarely had to actually throw anyone out of the building or hit them - usually just escorting them to the door was enough. So all in all, Bubba thought it was a pretty good gig, disreputable or not.

Most of the dancers weren’t too nice to him, but one of them was. Her name was Star, and she had pretty blue eyes and long brown hair that was teased out real big, and her body was the shape that he likes best: all the right-sized curves in all the right places. She called him _“Big Bubba”_ and told him he was cute. No one had ever called him that before, but he liked it. Sometimes she even playfully patted him on his backside when she walked past and gave him a wink, and he liked that, too.

……..

_“How you doin’, big guy?” She asks with a twinkle in her pretty blue eyes, sitting down on a bar stool beside where he’s standing._

_Bubba nods and shrugs at the same time, trying not to look at her bare breasts. The other dancers don’t like it when he does that - they call him a creep and say that if he’s going to stare he should at least pay like the customers do. But Star never seems to mind it. She gives him a smile as she slips on a loose-fitting crop top, then pats the bar stool beside her. “Wanna buy me a drink, cute stuff?”_

_He’s prepared for this question - she asks it at the end of every night that she works, and every night Bubba wishes he could… but Drayton counts every penny of his paycheck and would surely notice if some money was missing. So he reaches into his pocket to pull out his notepad and flips it to the page that he always shows her: ‘I CANT. BROTHER MAD.’_

_“That brother of yours still callin’ the shots, huh?”_

_Bubba nods, somewhat sadly._

_“Well… your brother ain’t here now, and neither is Rick the prick. So how about you let me buy_ **_you_ ** _a drink instead, hm?”_

_She’s never asked this before and it takes Bubba off guard. He hesitates - but the last of the patrons have just walked out the locked door and it’s true that the boss is gone for the night, so surely he won’t get in trouble…_

_She pats the seat beside her again. “C’mon Big Bubba, just one little drink. I wanna talk to you.”_

_He can’t resist the temptation so sits down next to her as she pulls her wallet out of her rhinestone-covered purse._

_“Two jack n’ cokes,” she orders, slapping down a few bills on the bar - bills that not thirty minutes ago Bubba watched a man tuck into her glittery panties._

_“Make it fast,” the bartender grumbles when he slides over the drinks, then resumes wiping down the counter._

_“Fuck off, Bud, we all know you ain’t got nowhere to be,” Star smirks as she lights up a cigarette, and the bartender holds up his middle finger but doesn’t bother to turn around._

_The drink doesn’t taste very good but Bubba drinks it anyway, watching her lips wrapped around the cigarette before she pulls it away and blows a delicate stream of acrid smoke over her shoulder. He’s never liked the smell of cigarettes. Drayton said it was a nasty habit, not knowing that Nubbins had once discovered his secret pack stashed away in the glove compartment of the truck. Bubba and Nubbins tried smoking one only once, then decided the foul-tasting stick was better spent burning up bugs that they found in the grass._

_Bubba wonders what Star’s going to talk to him about tonight. Sometimes she talks to him about how her shift went: if she made very much money, if any customers got too pushy - but not pushy enough for Bubba to have to throw them out. Sometimes she complains about her landlord, or whatever “bad boyfriend” she’s currently seeing, or sometimes she’ll show him her fancy new shoes or underthings she’s purchased for work, asking if he likes them. He always says yes. But she’s never offered to buy him a drink before now. He waits curiously for whatever tonight’s topic will be… and it’s not what he was expecting._

_“I’m goin’ away, cutie,” she says once her drink is half gone and the cigarette is no more than a smoldering stump. Bubba looks at her in confusion, and she furrows her brow and sighs heavily as she grinds the butt into the almost-overflowing ashtray nearby. “I’m knocked up, and that lowlife Billy ain’t fucking stickin’ around for his kid. Couldn’t get outta there fast enough when I told him, the deadbeat. So I’m goin’ out to Missouri to stay with my sister. She can get me a job waitin’ tables at her brother-in-laws joint. Flashin’ my tits and sucking dick ain’t no way to raise up a kid. I don’t want my baby growin’ up with a whore for a momma.”_

_Bubba blinks several times as he studies her face, trying to wrap his mind around what she’s just said. He has no idea what to write down in response._

_She looks up at him and he notices her pretty blue eyes are a bit watery. “I’m gonna miss you, big guy. You’re a real sweetheart, and a sweet guy like you’s hard to find.” She downs the rest of her drink, then scoots back the bar stool to stand up. She’s as tall standing as he is while sitting, even with her high heels on. Bubba stays seated, still trying to process everything she’s just said. It feels like the closest thing he’s had to a friend since Nubbins is leaving, and he’s suddenly deeply sad. He doesn’t even know where Missouri is, but it sounds far away. She reaches out one hand to cup his face, and before he knows it she leans forward to kiss him right on the lips. He freezes up for a moment, but begins to relax the longer she kisses him. It feels good. Much better than the few stolen kisses he’d given the cold, dead women who’d provided his masks. Her lips are soft and warm and taste like that fake cherry taste that some candies have, and her long fingernails lightly grazing his jaw feels good, too. She pulls back far too soon, then looks into his eyes with a quivering smile. “You take care of yourself, ya’ hear? And don’t let that brother of yours keep on keepin’ you down.”_

_Bubba nods. He wants to do something,_ **_say_ ** _something, but he just doesn’t know what. So he settles for patting her hand with his own. She smiles wider, then leans in to give him one last little peck on his cheek before picking up her rhinestone-covered purse. He watches her walk away from him, perfect curves swaying, then go through the door. She doesn’t look back as it closes behind her._

……..

You’re leaning your elbows on the kitchen counter across from him as you eat, and Bubba tries not to stare at your pretty face - or lower. He doesn’t know if his staring would make you mad like it did the dancers or if you wouldn’t mind it, like how Star didn’t mind it. So he figures it’s better safe than sorry. You’ve just offered him the best-paying job he’s ever had, and he isn’t about to blow it. _“Keep yer fat head down, don’t look at folks funny, and don’t even think about making them damn noises of yours… assumin’ you can think at all. Normal folks don’t like none of them hog squeals and bullshit yer always babbling. Keep yer mouth shut if you wanna stay outta the loony bin”_ , Drayton said. He’d called Bubba stupid for as long as Bubba can remember, but this was the first time he’d called him not-normal and it was surprising. Bubba knew he talked different than his brothers, but he didn’t know it was strange or bad. He didn’t know which noises counted as bad ones, so he’d learned to just stay quiet entirely when around other people. It was hard, very hard, not to be able to express himself, and it was yet one more misery added to the long list of miseries he’d endured since that blonde girl got away and everything _“went straight to hell”_ , according to Drayton. And it did feel like hell. For a good many years it felt like hell, and while the pain and fear isn’t quite as acute as it once was, Bubba would give anything to go back in time. To how it once was, when the world was still simple.

He didn’t know what “looking at folks funny” meant either, nor how to avoid doing it, so all he could do was try his best to mimic others. He’d watch Drayton closely out of the corner of his eye while they both tried to find him a job. Then once they finally landed him one, he would try his best to look just like the rest of the people employed there, whatever they were doing. He wasn’t used to people who weren’t screaming or dead. Back at home, intruders never lived long enough to do anything _but_ scream and die. But now he’s surrounded by intruders all the time, all just going about their business of not screaming or dying. Now _he’s_ the intruder, screaming and dying in his own mind while forced to move amongst them and pretend he’s not scared. It’s taken years, but while that unease has not yet disappeared entirely, at least now he can get by day to day without wishing he was smashed all over the road with Nubbins or dead in a motel room with Drayton and Grandpa. He can finally get by interacting with someone Drayton would have called “normal”. Like you. Someone he’d much rather focus on right now than the ghosts of his past.

Your lunch offering is tasty. Even the salad isn’t too bad, Bubba thinks - at least once it’s doused in plenty of ranch dressing. And best of all, it’s free. He’s hungry, but still tries to take his time eating as you tell him a bit more about yourself.

“My Granddaddy started the ranch back in 1935, then passed it along to my Daddy in the 60’s. I’ve been running it since ’91, but grew up working with the cattle. Granddaddy did some dairying for awhile there, but eventually just switched to beef. Milk market’s too volatile and it’s just too much damn work. Have you ever worked on a dairy?”

He nods, then places his fork gently down on his now-empty plate. There isn’t a speck of food left, and you wonder if he’s still hungry and when the last time he ate was. He doesn’t _look_ like he’s been hurting for meals, what with his general bulk and the layer of fat over his muscle… but still, you’ll plan a big dinner tonight to welcome him into your employ.

“Well, shall I show you where you’ll be staying?” You reach across the counter to take his empty dishes as he nods again and stands up from his bar stool. He looks delighted while also still somewhat in shock, and it’s surprisingly cute. Lots of things about him are surprisingly cute, but you tell yourself that it’s no big deal. It will just make having him around that much more enjoyable compared to some of the people you’ve hired in the past, as well as the ones currently working for you. Assuming he can meet your expectations for the job, at least. And you find yourself truly hoping that he can, for more reasons than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left encouraging comments on the preview! The positive response really inspired me, as is always the case. I hope you enjoyed the start of this new adventure as much as I'm enjoying writing it so far! :D


	2. Chapter 2

“Welp, here it is.”

You flip the switch on the wall and your newest employee - or rather, _potential_ employee - follows you inside. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, trying to pick up clues about what he thinks as he looks around the little studio apartment. “It’s got a bathroom with a shower back here,” you point, “and a kitchenette with a mini-fridge, toaster oven and a hotplate in case you’d like to do your own cooking, though I’m always happy to provide breakfast, lunch and dinner for on-site help if they’d like it. I always cooked for my husband and soon I just started cooking for anyone working on the ranch who wanted it. I enjoy it, so don’t feel shy about joining. Just let me know so I can make sure to make enough!”

Bubba looks down at you and nods. It’s all he can manage at the moment, he’s so overwhelmed with new information and emotions. This is the nicest room he’s ever seen in his entire life: neat and tidy and not falling apart even a little - which could not be said even for his beloved room he grew up in back home. It doesn’t stink like old cigarette smoke like most of the motel rooms he’s lived in over the years, and the bed and easy chair look incredibly comfy, with no rips or holes that he can see. There’s even a small television on a table in one corner. While it could definitely benefit from a few skulls and skins mounted on the walls, the way you have it decorated is nice, too.

Beyond the thrill of this room he’s miraculously been invited to use for at least one month - hopefully longer, if he can impress you enough - is the thrill of hearing you will provide meals if he wants them. While he hopes you don’t eat _too_ many salads, your meatloaf sandwich was tasty and he’s curious about what other sorts of food you might make. Although honestly, even the salads are welcome - and so is the company. He’s been without it for so long. Mealtime, especially dinner, used to be Bubba’s favorite time of the day back before his world fell apart. It was usually the only time all his family was together, sitting around the table and enjoying some home-cooked food. Sure, sometimes there was fighting and sometimes they didn’t have enough to eat... but sometimes there was laughter and plenty of food, and on very special occasions they even had a guest. And really, it was just nice to not be alone. He was so often left alone during the day when Drayton went to work and Nubbins went out on the road or to the cemetery. Bubba would spend time with Grandpa then, but while he loved Grandpa with all his heart, it was often almost just like being alone. But you can talk and seem nice, and if you keep being nice then he would very much enjoy your company, just like he enjoyed Star’s company. He wonders what you’ll talk about during mealtime. You appear to be your own landlord and he doubts you’ll be showing him your new shoes or underthings like Star did… but you said you have a husband. _Had_ a husband? He’s not really sure if this husband of yours is still here or not. Maybe he was bad, like Star’s boyfriends were always bad, and he went away? Maybe he died? Or maybe he’s just at work right now and will be home later. If so, Bubba hopes he can impress him as well and that he’ll let him stay.

He flips open his notebook and shows it to you: ‘THANK YOU.’

“Of course. Why don’t you go ahead and make yourself at home, unpack, settle in, and rest for as long as you need to. You had to have walked quite a ways today to make it all the way out here! If you’ve got enough energy I can show you around the ranch a bit if you’d like, otherwise it can wait till tomorrow. Supper’s at 6:30, just come down to the house. Do you have any questions?”

He shakes his head and holds up his ‘THANK YOU’ again. He’s still radiating gratitude and shock, and now you’re _really_ feeling bad for him. He looks like he’s just been handed the keys to a castle, and you hate to think of what his past housing may have been if he’s so impressed by this humble little apartment. “Alright, then, I’ll see you later!” You say cheerfully as you head towards the door. He nods, then gives you a little wave as you show yourself out.

Bubba sets his rucksack down on the bed, hesitates for just a moment, then sits down on the bed himself to test if it’s as comfy as it looks - and it is. He leans forward and lifts one leg to pull off his boot and then the other, and he can’t help but grunt in relief once his aching feet are free. You were correct when you guessed it had been a long walk all the way here, though in truth that walk had been split into two parts: he’d spent last night sleeping beside a stack of round bales in a hayfield between town and your ranch. It wasn’t the worst place he’d spent a night, but it certainly cannot compare to this.

He pulls off his socks and scrunches his toes against the knotted rag rug a few times, then hoists his legs up to lay down fully. The bed doesn’t even creak or sag in the middle, and the pillow is just right. Bubba can feel the urge to nap coming on strong so lifts his head just enough to undo his ponytail, then shakes his hair loose and sets the tie on the nightstand. There’s an alarm clock there and he takes note of it, carefully counting in his head how many hours he has until suppertime. He’s tired, but there’s no way he’s going to sleep long enough to miss out on dinner - and more time with you.

……..

_“You gotta get this through your fat head!” Drayton snaps, pounding one fist against the ugly brown formica tabletop in frustration. “Try it again!”_

_Bubba hurriedly nods, trying to keep his barely-there composure and not break the pencil lead against the paper again as he points once more to the clock sitting on the table next to him. He starts at the top number like he’s been instructed, then writes down a shaky ‘1 2’ as Drayton says, “Twelve.”_

_By now Bubba knows how to count up to twelve in his mind, but it’s still confusing to start at the highest number and then jump all the way back down to one. Why wouldn’t they put the one at the top of the clock? It makes no sense, just like everything else here in the city makes no sense. And that’s not even counting how sometimes the twelve apparently also means ‘o’clock’, and one means ’05’ and so on. He longs for the days not long ago when all this number and time stuff didn’t matter._

_“One,” Drayton prompts, and Bubba points to the next number, then writes it down as well. “Two… fucking hell!” Drayton suddenly shrieks, making Bubba drop the pencil in alarm. He looks quickly at the clock again, then back down at what he wrote on the page… and sees his mistake. The 2 isn’t shaped quite right - it resembles the 3 more than anything. Devastated, he can’t hold back a high-pitched whine of distress… which unfortunately angers his brother even more._

_“Goddamn it! What’ve I told ya about keepin’ yer trap shut?”_

_Bubba can’t take it. It’s too much, his brain feels like it’s going to explode, and it gets worse when he reaches up to pat his cheeks in agitation only to feel his bare skin and be reminded of his naked state. If only he had on the face of a smart person, maybe he could faster understand what Drayton is trying to teach him… but he’s deprived of his faces, deprived of his voice, deprived of any anchor of security in a raging sea too dark and too deep to see the bottom of, too vast to see the shore. It may as well go on forever for how lost he feels. At least Grandpa and Drayton are here with him, and despite his brother’s angry outburst Bubba reaches for him, hands trembling, desperately seeking some sort of comfort._

_Mercifully, Drayton’s face softens and he pats Bubba’s hand twice with his own. “There, there. I know yer tryin’. It ain’t yer fault yer a halfwit. But you gotta learn how ta read a clock and stay the hell quiet if yer gonna hold down a job. And we gotta get you out there soon, ain’t much money left from the station and I can’t pay for this room and food on my own for much longer. You understand?”_

_Bubba sniffles and nods. Yes, that is definitely something he understands. He’s noticed the way the meals Drayton brings back to the motel have been shrinking. Just then Grandpa lets out a weak, phlegmy cough from the chair in the corner where he’s been propped up all day. Numbers momentarily forgotten, Bubba hurries to his side and Drayton lets him. Grabbing the roll of toilet paper off the floor beside the chair, he tears off several sheets and brings them to the old man’s lips to wipe away the thick glob of gelatinous drool that’s crawled up his throat to ooze from one wrinkled corner of his toothless mouth._

_“And ain’t no way we can lose the room. Ol’ Grandpa ain’t right, he won’t make it long if we get tossed out on the street again,” Drayton frets, reaching into his pocket to pull out a cigarette. He lights it up while Bubba gently kisses Grandpa’s forehead and tosses the sticky wad of toilet paper into the wastebasket nearby. Drayton gave up trying to hide his smoking once they’d fled from their home, no explanation given, no mention anymore of it being a nasty habit. But that hardly matters now. Bubba’s sure Nubbins would have mocked him for it, but Bubba couldn’t care less. It smells bad, but the cigarettes seem to help calm Drayton down, which is always a good thing in Bubba’s book._

_“That’s enough for tonight, before both our brains start leakin’ outta our ears. Get yer Grandpa to bed, I’ll finish up here.” Drayton sighs, taking one long drag on his cigarette before picking up the empty take-out containers and heading for the bathroom. Bubba nods, then gently lifts Grandpa from his chair, setting him on the bed as though his old bones were as fragile as Grandma’s antique china they had to leave behind. One spectator shoe comes off and then the other, which are then set on the floor beside the bed. The pinstriped trousers follow, then Bubba picks up the nearby towel and pulls the rag, bucket and catheter close, then starts the routine of getting the old man cleaned up so he can sleep comfortably._

_“I’m thinkin’ tomorrow mornin’ we gotta start tryin’ to find you a job.” Drayton mumbles around his spent cigarette when he returns to the main room. “Clock or no clock, we can’t wait no more. Hopefully we’ll find ya something where that don’t matter. Hell, hopefully we’ll find you somethin’ at all.” He snuffs out the butt in the nightstand ashtray, then sits on the saggy old mattress and starts unbuttoning his shirt. Bubba grimaces at this announcement, but this time he’s able to hold in his whine as he tucks Grandpa in. He carries the bucket of urine to the bathroom and dumps it down the toilet, then unzips his pants to relieve himself as well. He stares down as he pisses, focusing on the straightforward stream to try and drown out the turmoil in his mind. The flush of the toilet is weak and the sink is as well. Bubba unties his hair, letting the black waves fall over his shoulders as he stares at himself in the dingy mirror. He’s not afraid of his own face - it’s his, after all - but it feels so inadequate. Looking at his face he feels nothing. Just emptiness staring back at him. He prefers to don another face to help him form that nothing into something, but Drayton says that’s not an option anymore - and it never will be again. He has to get used to this one face and this one face only, has to try and find and express all of those other people inside himself without showing it on the outside. It feels impossible. He splashes some cool water on that inadequate face, then looks into his own empty eyes as he towels off. Truthfully right now he welcomes the emptiness. If he’s empty enough perhaps the pain will go away, even if only for a moment._

_He flips off the bathroom light and drags himself back to the main room. Drayton’s turned off the lamp on his nightstand and appears to be sleeping already, so Bubba walks as softly as he can so as not to disturb him. He reaches his designated sleeping spot: the floor between Drayton and Grandpa’s twin beds. He takes off his boots but nothing else, then turns off Grandpa’s nightstand light and lays down. Back at home Bubba usually stripped down to his underwear to sleep, but it still feels too risky to do that out here in the city. Who knows what could happen? What if the bad people Drayton said would come after them and put them in jail if they didn’t run away showed up here anyway? He may not have a home to defend anymore, but he still has some family left and he has to be as ready as he can be to protect them if necessary, even without his hammer or saw._

_Sleeping is hard even despite his exhaustion - both from his anxiety and the uncomfortable place he now finds himself attempting to do it. The short motel carpet is scratchy and smells weird. The blanket isn’t much better, and the pillow’s nearly as flat as a cowhide. The room is dark save for the glaring yellow of a nearby streetlight slicing through the curtains. Bubba’s never seen a streetlight before now. It’s bright like the full moon but harsher. It feels like a spotlight shining directly on him, exposing and shaming him for the situation he finds himself and his remaining family in now. A situation that would never have happened if that girl hadn’t gotten away… if he hadn’t let her get away._

_It’s the millionth time he’s had this thought in the last four weeks, and the millionth time he’s felt tears start to make his eyes burn because of it. He rolls over onto his side, away from that harsh spotlight and sighs, closing his eyes and willing the dark, ugly emptiness inside to well up and wash over him - willing it to drown out the darker, even more ugly ache of his grief._

………

After what feels like mere minutes, Bubba’s eyes snap back open. He quickly turns his head to check the time: 6:05 PM. Just in time to join you for dinner, thankfully. He rolls off of that oh-so-comfy bed and grabs his hair tie, then rummages around in his rucksack for his brush. He doesn’t own much, but Drayton made sure he had what he needs in order to be “presentable” for any potential employers: a hairbrush, a razor and electric trimmers for his beard, a toothbrush and paste, and deodorant - although often Bubba doesn’t bother with half of those things, depending on the job. But it’s definitely important that he bother with them right now. The more presentable he can be for you, the better his odds are that you’ll let him stay. He strips down to nothing and pulls back the shower curtain, then turns the water on warm while he quickly brushes the tangles out his hair. A quick shower is definitely in order, and happily there is a bar of soap and even a bottle of 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner there already. Bubba hurriedly washes himself as best he can, just like Grandma taught him when he was a little boy. The shower’s a bit small, but the warm water feels incredible and he can’t remember the last time he had a hot shower or bath… but he keeps the clock running in the back of his mind and doesn’t dawdle. He wishes he had some cleaner clothes, but it’s been weeks since he’d found somewhere he could wash them. So after toweling off he inspects them all, and settles for the least-stinky button-up shirt and least-dirty pair of blue jeans. At least his beard is in reasonable shape at the moment, so he just ties back his hair again and gives himself one last look in the mirror before flipping off the light switch and heading for the door.

He walks down the wooden staircase that leads to the ground behind what you said is the old dairy barn. Butterflies are fluttering around in his stomach at the prospect of seeing you again and in anticipation of trying to make a good impression at the dinner table. It’s not too far of a walk between the barn and your house, and now that he knows he’s here to stay for at least a month, Bubba takes in as many details as he can this time he walks up your front steps and onto the porch. He doesn’t know anything about architecture, but the house looks nicely built and maybe not quite as old as his own house was. Drayton said Grandma and Grandpa built their house ten years before Drayton was born, which must have been a really long time ago. The butterflies in his stomach abruptly stop fluttering and fall dead to the bottom of his gut when as he thinks a thought that he’s had nearly every day for the past twenty years: what is the state of his old house now? He’s always wanted to know, but Drayton said they could never go back again to find out. And by now Bubba wouldn’t even know the way back there again to check now that Drayton can’t stop him. It’s too late. It’s too late for a lot of things now.

There are planters full of flowers on each side of your door and a mat that says ‘WELCOME’ on it. He sounds the word out in his head so he can decipher its meaning, and is pleased that it’s friendly. He knocks on the door, resurrecting his butterflies to flutter once more when he hears you holler from inside:

“Come on in, Mr. Sawyer!”

You wipe your hands on a dishtowel and grab two oven mitts instead to carry the huge pot of pasta from the stove to the colander waiting in the sink. You hear the front door open and close, and turn to look at him when he enters the kitchen. He’s as large as he was before, though his shoulders remain slightly hunched despite no longer bearing the weight of his rucksack. He’s changed clothes and his hair is a bit damp, so clearly he found and used the shower. You’ll show him the employee laundry facilities during his tour tomorrow.

“I hope you had a nice rest. Is everything okay with the apartment so far?” You dump the drained pasta into a large serving bowl and stir in the Alfredo sauce as he nods. “Oh good. I hope you don’t mind just fettuccine for dinner. It’s the only thing I had handy that could serve two people. I need to make a grocery run soon.”

Bubba nods again, then holds up his ‘THANK YOU’ page. He’s hovering around by the same stool he sat on for lunch, apparently waiting for permission to sit there again. But while the countertop is fine for a casual meal, you’d prefer to eat dinner at the table. Not just because it’s more proper, but because you’re more excited than you really want to admit to yourself about having someone who seems appreciative to cook for. It’s been a long time since you had company for dinner, and the loneliness can be dreadful sometimes. For a few years after Jacob died there were a handful of seasonal workers you’d hired who were pleasant enough, but after them you haven’t found any help that you care to spend time with outside of work. Certainly not your current crop of employees. If Mr. Sawyer continues to be as amiable as he has been so far, and if he proves to be a quality ranch hand, then you will be very glad indeed to hand them their pink slips when the slower season starts.

“Alrighty, it’s ready to eat. Let’s go on into the dining room,” you say cheerfully, and he follows along as you carry the steaming bowl of pasta. You’ve already got two places set, and nod your head towards where he’s to sit across the table from you. An old family heirloom, it’s large enough to fit plenty of food and not be too close to the person on the opposite side - preferable for when you don’t know someone well - but not so huge as to feel like you have to shout across the room. Bubba follows your instruction and walks towards his designated chair, and for the first time you notice he’s got a slight limp. You’re curious how he acquired it, but that might be too personal of a question right out of the gate. Perhaps you’ll ask him once you’ve gotten to know him better. “Go ahead and dish up, take as much as you want. There’s plenty, as you can see.”

You push the big bowl of pasta a bit closer to him and Bubba nods and eagerly plops a huge serving onto his plate. He’s never heard the word ‘fettuccine’, but whatever it is it looks and smells absolutely divine: all cheesy and buttery with chicken and herbs mixed in. Drayton was a good cook, but he never cooked anything quite like this and Bubba’s excited to try it. It also doesn’t escape his notice that you offered it to him first. Grandma used to say that was good hostess behavior, behavior that Bubba tried to emulate when they had a guest for dinner - even though those guests usually didn’t end up eating their offered food before becoming food themselves. But still, Grandma said it’s the right thing to do, and though his memories of her are blurry and faint, Bubba treasures them and tries to follow them as best he can. It’s nice to learn that you’re also a good hostess.

It’s torture, but he waits to start eating till you’ve served yourself as well - Grandma taught him that, too. There’s a small salad already fixed on a second plate, but he can’t put off trying the fettuccine in favor of ‘rabbit food’, as Drayton would call it. He’ll eat it afterwards. The first bite of pasta he finally takes transports him straight into the most pleasure he’s felt in ages. It’s so delicious. Right in this moment it’s the most delicious thing he can ever remember eating, and it’s all he can do not to squeal in delight to express to you how delicious it is… but instead he just smiles and closes his eyes as he chews, trying to savor the flavor and satisfying texture instead of wolfing it down like he wants to.

“How is it?” You ask from across the table, and he opens his eyes again to see your pretty face looking at him like you really want to know what he thinks. Like you actually _care_ what he thinks. The only other person who ever looked at him that way was Star. He desperately wishes he knew how to spell ‘delicious’, but it’s not a word he’s ever had to write before and it’s complicated-sounding. He fears he won’t write it correctly and then you’ll know just how stupid he is and maybe you’ll take back your offer of employment. So instead he nods as energetically as he can, and holds up his notepad page that says, ‘GOOD’.

“Oh good, I thought you’d probably like it. It's my Grandma’s recipe, and she never fails!” You grin at him from across the table and he grins right back before stuffing another heaping forkful into his mouth. You both eat quietly for awhile after that, and eventually Bubba remembers your mystery husband. He’s nowhere to be seen yet, and it seems strange that you would eat dinner without him if he was still at work. Him being dead or gone are seeming more and more like plausible explanations. He wants to ask you, but he doesn’t know how. Plus, that might be be a mistake. _“Don’t ask questions, just listen,”_ Drayton had advised him upon venturing into the wider world. _“Ain’t no one cares what you’ve got to say, and folks don’t like it when people get too damn nosy. Mind yer business.”_ But even though the mystery is tugging at his curiosity, Bubba really can’t say he’s sad that there’s apparently no husband here anymore. That’s one less person he has to impress, and while you seem to be nice, the same might not have been true for your husband.

Once he’s finished one full plate of pasta he moves on to his salad. It’s obvious he’s enjoying the meal, and it gives you a warm fuzzy feeling you haven’t felt in ages. Jacob was always so appreciative of your efforts in the kitchen, which made it all the more satisfying to pamper your hard working husband that way. Food = love, as your Grandma always said, and she’d instilled that value in you well and from an early age.

Your guest eats considerably faster than you, and by the time you’re halfway done with your pasta he’s cleaned both of his plates. He’s just sitting there quietly, but you have a sneaking suspicion he’s itching for seconds but is too shy or polite to help himself. So you encourage him. “Please have some more if you’re still hungry. Like I said, there’s plenty and I’ll probably go to town the day after tomorrow to get groceries. You can come along if you’d like, or write me a list and I can just pick up whatever you’d prefer to eat, if you don’t care to keep eating what I cook. I won't be offended if that's the case,” you wink at him.

Bubba shakes his head almost comically fast and pulls his notebook and pencil out of his pocket. You wait patiently as he writes something down, then read when he holds it back up: ‘I LIKE WAT YOU COOK.’

He looks a bit bashful as he shows it to you, and once again you’re struck with just how goddamn cute he is. You thank him for the compliment as he piles more pasta onto his plate and dives back in. Maybe he’s just really hungry, but you’re still a bit astonished by how much food he’s packing away. Well, it shouldn’t really be surprising. He has to maintain that impressive physique somehow, and hard work alone isn’t going to do it. A powerhouse needs fuel, after all. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” you smile once you’re both finally finished. He grins and nods and mirrors your movements when you stand and pick up your plate, and he carries his dishes along behind you back to the kitchen. He stands close by as you fill up the sink to start washing the dishes, and you’re surprised when he picks up the nearby dish towel and holds it up and gestures towards the sink. Well, this is a first. None of the ranch hands you cooked for ever offered to help with the dishes, and even Jacob usually went to his study to do just a bit more work while you cleaned. Someone must’ve raised this good southern boy right, you think - or at least taught him how to suck up to a potential employer. Either way, his gesture is appreciated but not really necessary… but it might be awkward to just have him standing there watching you clean since he can’t really make conversation. Perhaps keeping him busy might make him feel more comfortable. “Would you be willing to bring the pasta bowl in and wipe down the table, please?” You request, handing him a soapy sponge. He nods as you expected, then shuffles out of the kitchen and back to the dining room. He’s back in mere moments and sets the half-empty serving bowl on the counter before returning the sponge to you.

“Thanks. You don’t need to stick around here to help, I’ve got this. Just a few more dishes to wash and I’ll toss the leftovers in the fridge for lunch tomorrow. Breakfast is at 6:30, and we usually start work at 7. Alright?”

Another nod and another ‘THANK YOU’, and when you bid him goodnight he gives you a wave and shows himself out.

Bubba walks back to the dairy barn with his belly and spirit more full than they’ve felt in ages. This morning he woke up on the ground covered in hay and dirt, chilly and miserable with no real hope of finding a job way out here. He wasn’t even sure there would _be_ any ranches this direction, but he’d had no luck in town and had just enough water, beef jerky and dry oatmeal to last him a few days so it was worth trying. And now he’s going to sleep in a nice, cozy bed in a nice, clean apartment, after having a delicious dinner and lunch with a friendly, beautiful woman who gave him a job. Today could not possibly have been any better, and for the first time in a long time he allows himself to hope that perhaps tomorrow will be just as good, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all are enjoying the story thus far! Comments and kudos are deeply appreciated. They fill my soul like chicken Alfredo fills Bubba's belly, haha!  
> Thank you for reading! <3


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